The load of heaven

At any time
I feel the load of heaven
on my shoulders. The same
blunt, pushing motion.

No, I cannot fly. In autumn
I jump to pluck an apple,
no more than that.

But when I gaze into
the orange-blue pyramid
towering above my head

and think about gods, their
bronze-hoofed horses and chariots,
and goddesses in olive dresses, ever
pregnant, milk spurting
out of their breasts,

and demons rolling
in the pungent hay of afternoon rays,
and planets spiralling, ever steeper,
towards the dreary disk of the Sun,

I realise how much weight,
how much effort
it takes heaven
to keep me down.

And when I kiss
your moth-like fluttering eyelids,
it nearly fails.

Вланес, 2010

Сертификат Поэзия.ру: серия 790 № 83774 от 22.11.2010

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